The Soldier
by Ash10
Summary: Sergeant Saunders has one heck of a lousy day, but taking things in stride is what's expected of a soldier. Rated for one or two curse words.


As in "The Promise," this story, "The Soldier," is taken from my "Combat!" fiction site. I wrote this some years back so you might've already read it in one form or another. If not, please enjoy "The Soldier."

XXXX

Nothing else seemed to matter, and nothing else should have. It was as peaceful a day, as lovely a day as the soldier could ever remember. But then beauty was often eclipsed by things of a more volatile nature. War had a way of doing that.

Birds called softly, the breeze had a mild chill, just enough that he was glad for the light field jacket he wore. The lake reflected the tumbled down dock, the line of trees back at him; these things and another he hadn't bargained for. The young GI crouched down to peer at the reflection of his own face. What he saw startled and revolted him.

The pale hair was unkempt and wild, the blue eyes smudged with dark circles and lined with squint furrows. The residue of burnt cork and a two day growth of beard added to the surreal picture. The face was that of a stranger. Gone was the gentle roundness of youth, the softness of full lips and the thoughtful inquiring expression that bespoke intense, unabating curiosity. In their place was a hardness, a weariness that was as unsubtle as the day was obvious in its peacefulness. But all looks were deceiving. Sergeant Chip Saunders was still a vital young man who loved life and harbored hopes and dreams and ambitions. A few weeks rest, some decent food and hot water would do wonders for the outer changes. The inner ones would take time to accomplish, but they would come as well. The deception was in the setting, not in the man.

Saunders idly splashed his fingers into the water, then purposefully drew up a handful and scrubbed his face. He rubbed another handful through his hair, combed in with his fingers. Again he surveyed his reflection. Some improvement, not enough, but then who was there to see? Not his squad. They were as tired and as bedraggled as their sergeant. He hadn't even seen a woman, aside from the haggard, terrified women from the village they'd just cleared out, in a month. He hadn't been with a member of the fair sex in three.

But that girl, she was someone to be remembered. No whore with guys queued up for a block, clutching whatever the going trade rate - a carton of smokes, a few boxes of C-rations, a pair of boots. She was a country girl, no more than twenty, if that. Sweet, but not naive about men; she'd already lost a husband to the Germans more than a year earlier, and she was utterly guileless. Something about Saunders had attracted her. It was certainly not the physical resemblance to her dead husband who had been as dark as the sergeant was fair, or so she'd told him, but it was something in his personality, in the way he held himself. He'd spent his 48 hour pass with her. He was there with her now, in his mind and his heart, if he'd allow himself to feel that much. It was a dangerous place to be.

"Jeanette." He whispered her name aloud, guiltily, glancing across his shoulder to check for anyone who might have heard his lapse - a lapse from soldier to man. But isn't a soldier just a man? No. He couldn't be, not if he wanted to survive this god-damn war. Not just survive, but live - live to return to the world and be just a man once more.

His mind drifted as he lay back against the sun-warmed earth, his senses filled with the smells of grass and flowers and fresh air - not smoke and gunpowder and blood. He allowed his eyes to close and he allowed himself to remember – her touch against his cheek, her lips against his, her body soft and yielding.

XXX

Saunders woke with a start, blood pounding in his ears. Grabbing the Thompson, he bolted to his feet. Darkness had fallen and the sounds he heard now were more familiar than the quiet rustling of the trees and the soft buzzing of insects. They were the sounds of men.

Saunders faded back to the cover of some trees, hoping to blend in. But the moon had already risen and it was full and the light it gave off easily allowed the sergeant to see who was coming-- his squad.

Saunders expelled the breath he'd been holding and relaxed. His arms trembled from the release and the sweat felt cool as the breeze came up to dry it from his skin. That was too close and he knew it.

But the squad acted as if they hadn't a care in the world. A day off, a hot shower and some decent food could do that for a soldier - make him a man again. It gladdened Saunders to see it, to hear the laughter. Kirby had said something and the guys were tripping over themselves to get their hands on him. Caje won, but he was laughing so hard his menacing, drawn back fist only made the men laugh harder.

Saunders walked over, loath to break up the moment. "Looking for me?"

"Yeah, yeah, Sarge." Doc answered, a bit more in control than the others. "Lieutenant Hanley got worried since we're pulling out at oh-five-hundred, and that's," Doc checked his watch, angling it just right to catch the moonlight, "four hours from now. He figured you'd want some food and sleep before then."

"Food, yes." Saunders yawned and stretched. "But sleep I got and plenty."

"Yeah, that Hanley, he's just a mother hen and we're all his little baby chicks, even you, Sarge." Kirby cackled and even several feet away, Saunders could smell the wine on his breath.

It was time to become a soldier again and Saunders sighed against it. "Sober up, Kirby."

Littlejohn giggled.

"Come on." Saunders donned his helmet and squared his shoulders. "You found me and I want some chow even if you don't."

The sergeant led the way, followed single file by the men, trying without success to act like good soldiers. Giggles, shoving matches and even singing tagged Saunders all the way back to town. His heart was as light as it had been in months.

XXX

But that had been yesterday and twenty-four hours was a lifetime away. The company had caught it and caught it good - a huge push against the Germans and vicious fighting supported by enemy artillery. The GIs were getting bashed - pounded into the rain soaked ground. Thunder had begun at daybreak, followed by torrential sheeting rain. Now every step the men took mud sucked at their booted feet and sapped the energy they'd regained only the day before. Now instead of laughter, Kirby was first with the curses and complaints. No one minded because no one heard. They were all just trying to survive.

Saunders sat in the foxhole, muck anchoring his body to the ground. The Cajun scout crouched next to him, searching Saunders' face, trying to read the sergeant. There was little expression there, and what was there was hidden behind a thin mask of drying mud. Saunders focused on Caje.

"I'm okay, really."

"Sure, Sarge." Caje relaxed, settling down next to the non- com, reaching into a pocket for a smoke, offering one to Saunders before taking one himself. He held the lighter to Saunders' cigarette and watched the sergeant inhale deeply. He lit his own and satisfaction flooded his angular features.

Awkwardly, Saunders removed his helmet and rubbed at the pain throbbing at his temples. It wasn't just the headache. His wrist on up to his shoulder hurt like the very devil.

Only an hour earlier, while crossing a field, an artillery shell had exploded directly behind Saunders. He'd been thrown high into the air and slammed down into the mud. Instinctively, he put out his left hand to break the fall. His wrist bent back and gave, snapping, the impact going on up to dislocate his elbow. He lay, face down in the wet, his ears ringing, blood streaming from his nose. The squad, fanned out farther back, thought the shell had caught him fair.

"He must've been so close the fragments blew outward, missed him completely," Littlejohn observed as they reached Saunders, searching him for obvious wounds. There were none - only the bloody nose. He clutched at his arm, holding it close to his body, frustrated as he tried to make out what the men were saying to him. He made the attempt to stand upright, but his legs wouldn't hold him and his head felt like it was going to split wide open. Littlejohn and Caje grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and ignominiously dragged him to cover. Saunders stomach lurched and he vomited, adding insult to his injury.

Doc had been located; the wrist was set and the elbow resettled into its proper position. The medic had cleaned Saunders' face of most of the mud so at least he could breathe again. The sergeant refused morphine but swallowed down several aspirin tablets.

Against his will, Saunders started to drift off. He hadn't lost consciousness at all when the shell caught him nor afterwards when Doc had set his wrist and elbow, though to pass out then would have been a blessing.

But now his body called it quits. He slept while Caje kept watch. It was a dark and dreamless sleep. When he woke, the sky was already a delicate shade of pink. Saunders groaned softly. He ached everywhere.

Just when you thought things couldn't get worse - war was hell - your feet were wet and covered with fresh blisters - the Germans were on a rampage – this had to happen. Saunders mumbled, "You just don't know when you're well off."

The medic smiled at the observation and put a cup of strong hot coffee into the sergeant's good hand. Saunders inhaled the fragrance and was delighted when his stomach didn't heave. Cautiously he sipped the liquid, wondering how the medic had crept up on him so quietly.

Doc checked the damaged left arm. Beneath the bandaging it had swollen alarmingly. The medic hadn't dealt much with setting broken bones so he wasn't certain how concerned he should be. Actually, he was more concerned with the concussion from the explosion. He'd seen a lot of that, and very often the damage was severe and hidden. But Saunders was alert once he woke up completely. His pupils were equal and reactive and his hearing seemed to have returned. Doc was relieved. It showed on his expressive face.

"I'll live?" Saunders questioned and Doc nodded.

"If you stay out of the way of incoming artillery you will." Doc grinned, gathered up his gear and moved on to the next foxhole.

Saunders reached up to scratch at his forehead. A bit of mud came away. Yesterday, no, it was the day before, he'd examined his reflection in the still water of the small lake. It had been almost unrecognizable to him then. He could only imagine how he looked today. Would Jeanette recognize him? Would his own mother? He doubted it.

Lieutenant Hanley stood over the foxhole, looking down at his non-com. "We're moving out, Sergeant." He didn't ask if Saunders thought he could make it. He and Saunders both knew he would.

"Yes, sir. I'm ready, Lieutenant."

Hanley reached down and grabbed the Thompson Saunders handed out to him, then reached down and pulled the sergeant out of the hole. Saunders paled and was a bit unsteady on his feet for the first moment or two, then reached for his Tommy gun.

_Soldier_, Hanley observed in the only private place left to him, his mind. To the officer it was a compliment not given lightly.

This day was nearly a repeat of the previous one - a fierce running battle. Only today the men were more tired. There were more injuries, and more soldiers lost. The sky opened up and drenched the GIs again, adding to their misery.

Saunders was making as much time as he could manage with one arm in a tight sling across his chest, the other balancing the Thompson. For the last half mile or so it seemed he had become the particular target of a German corporal. Maybe he seemed an easy mark what with being hampered by the sling. Maybe he was just easier to spot because of that same white bandaging, though by now it was badly soiled. All Saunders knew was that one particular German was making his day a nightmare.

Panting with exertion, he found the cover of a tree. Rain dripped in a steady pattern off his helmet and a blinding headache, courtesy of the artillery shell, made it hard to think clearly. A burst from a Schmeisser tore chunks of bark from the tree and caused Saunders to flatten himself tightly to the opposite side. He returned fire then took off, not wanting to be pinned down, trying for deeper cover. Somehow the squad had outdistanced him. He had to catch up. His stamina seemed no match for the German's. He hoped his knowledge and fighting sense gave him at least an equal footing.

For what seemed like an eternity, the American sergeant and German corporal played cat and mouse. For the most part it was Saunders who was the mouse. The rain came down in torrents now and the German seemed to be tiring of the game. He pushed Saunders in earnest, so close the sergeant imagined he could feel the soldier's breath on the back of his neck. Reaching, over-extending, Saunders jumped a small gully, landing hard on the opposite side, slipping in the slick mud and falling against his injured arm. Shooting stars of pain arced through his skull and behind his eyes and it took all he had left to roll over onto his back and bring the Thompson up.

But already the German stood above him. Rain streaming from his helmet, his expression seemed not without pity as he finally got a good look at his bone-weary adversary.

"Quite the soldier; like me, yes?" he commented in German, his machine gun leveled at Saunders' chest.

Saunders' finger tightened on the Thompson's trigger. He had no thoughts of pity - only survival. He fired at the exact moment the German also squeezed off a burst. But somehow, Saunders was quicker and the impact of his bullets into the German threw off his aim. Bullets from the Schmeisser tore harmlessly into the brush behind the sergeant's head.

Shaking, exhausted, Saunders dragged himself to his feet. Now it was he who gazed down at the German's prone body. There was no compassion on the sergeant's face - only relief. He had survived. He would live another day. Here and now he was a soldier. Then, later, there would be time to be a man.

END


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